


Dionysian Veil

by shanewantstobattle



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Scene Investigations, Crime Scene Recreation, Crime Scenes, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, Gore, Guns, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Heavy Angst, Horror, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nietzsche references, Non-Canon Cases, Philosophy References, Professor Will Graham, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The Cases Are Important, Therapy, Thriller, Unstable Will Graham, Weapons, Will Has Nightmares, body gore, body parts, murders, season 1 timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanewantstobattle/pseuds/shanewantstobattle
Summary: The veil between Will Graham’s nightmares and his reality wears thinner and thinner ever since the incident with Garret Jacob Hobbs. He sees the man he killed everywhere he goes, and every time he closes his eyes, whether to sleep or to recreate a crime scene, sometimes sitting in the seat of his lecture hall. Can Hannibal help Will distinguish fiction from reality as a new sling of gruesome murders brings Will back into the field, or will Will subject himself to the darkness with no way to return back through the veil?
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, hannigram
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Shane here : ) !! This is my first Hannigram / Hannibal fic!! Since I haven’t finished the show ( I am currently about to start the third season ) I figured I’d make a fic that everyone in the fandom, new and old, can read and enjoy! 
> 
> I hope y’all like it so far, and don’t forget all comments, kudos, bookmarks and the like are always appreciated, and ily guys <3 !!!

_**This is my design.** _

A harsh **click** sounds as the safety is pushed off, tough plastic meant to act as the final veil between life and death being pushed towards one definitive side; a certainty of protection, muddled by the infatuating pure intention to _kill_. The plastic is pushed easily by the small weight of an index finger, the circular heart cushion of the digit which flicks the tab so effortlessly, so _professionally_ , doing so as if it were nothing more than car keys being flipped through on a steel ring. Or a finger expertly flicking through recipes, trying to find that perfect one.

**This** is not his first time doing this.

But the functionality of the when, and how, and why of all the previous events, and henceforth _victims_ , aren’t substantial to the here and now.

The here and now dictates more than just this nearly inaudible moving of plastic through space and time, of the push and pull of action and reaction forces of weight, it proves to us - those that have the indomitable will to look it in the eyes - that the click of the safety isn’t the only thing that comes with the unshrouding of this thin and oh so frail finite veil, this man-made means to an end, oh no. What is learned in this moment of time: is that whimpering is paired with it.

Man, woman, child, teenager or elder, businessman or CEO, a student or a professor, _who’s_ whimpers that fall from quivering - and chapped - lips does not matter; at least not here.

_At least not **yet**._

For you see what matters here, and in the now of the present moment, is that that little flick of tough plastic, a curve like a cresting tidal wave - protecting or readying itself to drown something in its’ path - is what’s in accompaniment with it.

_The devil is in the details, after all._

The whimpering, shrill, shrieking sounds of blubbering mixed with the merciful concoction of pleads and sniffles, is guilt finally rearing its head like a threatened stag— now that, _that_ is music to the ears. The ears that wish to listen, to partake witness to it all.

And those that do, they stay for the whole thing, right up until the finale; seeing the theatrical performance through and through.

It’s’ symphony tonight ends with the loud crack of the gun firing. Not once. Nor twice. Thrice nor fourth, but **seven** in succession, that veil completely torn through, riddled with holes.

This is his finale.

The veil is torn, riddled with the sinful shots like the victim, who’s cries have died down, snuffed like cinders and flying off into the sky like the lingering smoke from the newly emptied gun as the smell of sharp metal hits flaring palates under the sting of the scorching summer heat, barely blanketed by the rousing disguise of the moonlit night.

**_This is my design._ **


	2. Chapter 1

“How does that make you feel, Will?” Spoken upon a suave registrar, the poised man leaned back in his chair, only marginally adjusting the leg that which was crossed over the other - the right a perch for the left - his chin brandishing itself skyward by a few extra degrees; proudly presenting himself to God before Him like man did before the final judgment of his sins.

“Like—,” the second man, presumably _Will_ , sighed, the meeting point of his brow bone twitching, two darkly sculpted arches of collective hairs like a hive mind flinching in response, furrowing into a quizzical look of self doubt.

No righteousness here, nothing to presume he thought he was _better_ than his fellow man.

“Like I was back in the Hobbs’ house,” another shaking pause, a skull that brandished tufts of wavy darkened hair shook to and fro, as if trying to deny _himself_.

As if to say _it wasn’t real._

But it was. Or at least, 

“It felt so real, Dr.Lecter. Like I was back there, killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs. I could feel the gun in my hand, the trigger’s release and recoil as I pressed it, round after blistering round. This time I didn’t stop, no. Not even when the splattering of blood stained my glasses entirely crimson. Not then did I stop. Not until he was nothing more than a _heap_ on the floor. Until it was hard to distinguish what was blood and what was, left, of him.”

The original man who had spoken - respectively renown ex-surgeon and now psychiatrist Doctor Hannibal Lecter - tilted his head, staying silent for the in between seconds of Will Graham speaking and the ragged exhale he exuded; a hand, also shaking at the pivots of calloused knuckles, worn down from work, raising to find its’ way down Will’s face, hiding him for a moment.

All of this, Hannibal observed with ease, with doctoral precision; with barely so much as a small rise and fall of his chest within his quietly labored breathing underneath his pristinely tailored suit.

“But it was different. That is something to cling to, Will. Knowing the differences of our realities versus our nightmares. It may feel like your control is slipping, rather hazardously, but we ground ourselves in being able to distinguish things; telling one thing apart from the next or previous. I presume that’s what you do when you picture yourself as these killers, correct? Telling yourself apart from them, so that you allow yourself to be in their shoes, yet grounding yourself in the reality of a _crime scene.”_

**_This is my design._**

Will nodded, those twitching brows giving a few more shuddering recoils before settling, smoothing out into a stoic indifference; a passiveness where emotions are only observed through the shifting of the eyes, the angle at which pupils and irises land upon things, upon people.

“I, uh, yeah,” another set of successions of nods, Will himself now moving to adjust in the armchair he resided in, the smooth dark fabric welcoming the professor like the darkness he subjected himself to. But he was _saving lives_ when he did that. 

Hands moved to fidget at his jacket, moving either of the side flaps to nestle into either side of the chair, cushioned between his abdomen and the chair’s arms, as if forcing the fabric to sit between a rock and a hard place. “I make sure no one else is in the room if possible. It’s for concentration, to be able to give myself a life preserver to get back out.”

“With the hopes you don’t bring something back, allowing for the rope to only be fastened around _your_ abdomen.” Hannibal nodded, that collected state of his countenance staying even as he observed and spoke, features settling once more as his lips formed the last word.

Will choked out a bit of a laugh at that, cheeks shifting as teeth presumably snagged at the inner skin, jaw clenching. “Sometimes that doesn’t always work.”

“Well, that’s why _I’m_ here. To make sure you’re staying stable enough up to Jack Crawford’s standard, and to be your support system, Will.

Do you know what the great Philosopher Nietzsche once said?” The question was fairly simple, articulated in a clean-cut manner; there were no corners to take, nothing to hint at a secondary agenda, sneaking right up behind someone, lingering in the shadows for the inhabitants of the room to gasp at when it’s revealed later.

Not in _this_ case, at least.

Will stayed silent from where he was sitting, meeting the direct trajectory gaze of Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal continued, “He said man is all born into the same state. That we are born under the Dionysian rule. Such details as unruly, chaotic, _destructive_ beings who abide by no law, never mind others’ word of mouths. I’m sure you’re aware of the argument for nature versus nurture?”

Hannibal paused this time, _expecting_ some sort of answer from the other.

Will merely nodded, the staccato of his nods ragged, choppy in short bursts, like a broken bobble head, or a glitching hologram. 

“This is similar. Nietzsche claimed that we are all born as these unruly creatures, nothing holding us together, nothing tethering us to this world, nothing to make us takes responsibility to a set of societal norms. But there was this veil, this _separation_ , for there were others not quite similar to those who danced and danced as if the world around them didn’t exist.” Hannibal rose his arms as he spoke, settling them into a crisscross across his lap, though his gaze never left Will’s. Even with the world constantly moving around them, the only stagnant thing was Hannibal’s gaze upon Will Graham.

“Others?” There it was again, that furrowing of the brows, Will staying on the same page as the Doctor, taking in the philosophy with a professional curiosity fueled haste, though connecting it to what had happened.

“There’s always two sides to things, Will. People mistake that for meaning the world is strictly black and white, but it isn’t. Those two sides can both be gray, just in different contrasting values. The other side of that veil, in Nietzsche’s view, was those of Apollo, the Apollonian way of things. They were educated, just, complete opposites of everything the Dionysians were. 

But, the Dionysians never knew of the Apollonians, for there was a veil separating the two sides from one another. But the Apollonians?,” Hannibal pauses for a breath, a soft intake of dehumidified office air into strong lungs.

Ever the opportunist, Will cuts in, “They knew of the Dionysians.”

Hannibal’s impassive expression breaks for the first time since Will’s session began, the curvature of a smile coming to fruition at his lips, the tiers breaking apart to showcase a marginal glimpse at pearl white square bones. Such a small smile is accompanied by a nod. “Precisely. So you see where Nietzsche was going now.”

Breaking eye contact for the first time since his arrival into the armchair, Will’s gaze finds itself lingering to Hannibal’s desk - which is to _his_ left of Hannibal’s shoulders; the deep set colored wood set comfortably near the wall. Though not too close as to obstruct any trail behind it, but rather thoughtfully placed so it looks organized yet also methodical.

Pristine. Perfect.

“I think I do. The Apollonians must have evolved or learned in some aspect in the ways the Dionysians didn’t, giving them knowledge as power.” His gaze drifts back to Hannibal, who’s smile has grown in the aftermath of Will’s words. 

Dr.Lecter seems pleased with the other’s words, impressed even; though he knew he shouldn’t ought to be: it wasn’t a surprise Will was intelligent and could pick up on a pattern of instances.

After all, he could tap into the minds of murderers and see _their_ patterns.

“Knowledge is power after all, Will. And that’s exactly what the Apollonians had over Dionysus and his people. Knowledge. But with knowledge comes the consequence of responsibility, of not being blinded by that veil of ignorance, of the unseen and unknown.”

“Ignorance is bliss.” Will spoke, almost sounding surprised, as if his brain hadn’t made the connection prior to his vocal cords vibrating the formation of them, the muscle of his tongue inside a teeth fenced cavern speaking them into existence.

“Ignorance is bliss.” Dr.Lecter repeated with a short nod. “Some argue that ignorance is better than having knowledge. For when you don’t know anything but what’s directly presented in front of you: how can you know when you should **_fear_**?”

“Simple,” Will interjects, though, he knows it’s not needed. Despite this, he carries on regardless, “You don’t. Which would allow them to act on whims and purely upon instinct.”

That sense of contempt hasn’t left the doctor’s visage in quite some time now, the more him and Will discuss the subject of Nietzsche, the more it just seems to be fueled. Which in turn, seems to fuel Will’s as well, a soft smile - more so of knowing, than a professional quench of satisfaction - coming to dance at his hair lined jaw , pushing his cheeks outward in the gesture.

**Pride**.

“Exactly. And that distinction, is what matters. To see both sides, and determine which you are on. Because as much as things are purely not black and white, different values of gray can be traced, erased, and darkened. The world is ever changing around us, both in our conscious behaviors and unconscious behaviors. We _choose_ where we stand, what we see, and what we subject ourselves and our minds to.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightens now for a brevity of a second, so swiftly swiping away the previous demeanor it went almost undetectable, like the sharp inhale of a gasp. His eyes betrayed him nothing. “So tell me, Will. Which side do you think Garrett Jacob Hobbs resided on, and which side do you place yourself on? And ask yourself: are they the same, or do you stare at one another from opposing sides, a mysterious and unknown veil separating the two of you, yet forging a bridge to and fro?”


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Just wanted to say thank you for all of you guys who read the prologue and first chapter and really liked it so far :,) I’m really enjoying writing this and I’m going to try to update to as frequently as I can; I got some interesting parts for this case in store heh!! 
> 
> This is also a reminder this is my first Hannigram / Hannibal fic and I’m trying to make sure all the characters seem real and authentic, as well as the crimes / cases !! 
> 
> I hope y’all continue to support this work and remember all kudos, comments, bookmarks, and views / reads are appreciated and mean the whole world to me <3

**_WARNING: This chapter contains content that may not be suitable for all readers, including ( but is not limited to ): gore / crime scenes, mentions of death / dismemberment / mention of body parts and removal of such, etc,. Reader dissection is advised. I hope you enjoy : ) !!!_ **

The heat; it brings more than just the beginning indicators of summer. Of clear skies littered with cloudless blues, matching the sharp azure to the glistening ocean beneath. Of a reminder school is almost over - or already out - for a brief period of warm adventures and laughter, and a reminder that freedom is just upon the tip of the tongue. It brings new flowers and plants preparing for harvest in a few months, of watermelons and sunflowers, cool pool parties and the jarring sound of electrical air conditioners as they rumble from the teetering windowsill of a screenless window.

The heat brings more than that.

It brings dry and stale air, gusts of wind carrying smells and dry dying leaves across parking lots, across driveways and front yards, grains of sand upturned by bare feet across a beach. Of laughter and the sounds of traffic as vacations start and beaches fill up with sandcastles and pop-up umbrellas, of coolers and towels, happy shrieking cawing like the seagulls flying above. But more _**importantly**_ , in this here and now,

The heat brings the smell of _rotting flesh_ ; the natural body’s order of decomposition, setting in after a finite time of death, one singular grain in the sands of time, dedicated to a singular person.

And the smell brings attention to the body. 

Though the scene in which the body is discovered isn’t grandeur, isn’t a mural or a piece of artwork to be _envied_ by the likes of Michaelangelo or Vincent Van Gogh. But rather, the crime scene is rather plain.

_Arguably normal_.

But is there ever _normality_ in a death sentence not brought upon by ourselves? Not brought upon by Mother Nature herself? When our deaths are sentenced and stamped by the hands of _someone else_ ; do all veins of normality dry up? Allowing the normal to become a rare oasis in the desert of crime scene markers and nameless victims, and of uncaught killers?

In a suburban town in the middle of Virginia, that question brings itself back to light. 

You see, normality is subjective, like beauty; held in the eyes of the beholder. Everyone brings something different to the table, from their experiences, upbringing, their own interests and sense of self. Even those raised under the same roof, holding the same family name and having gone through the same events: they are all different.

_Normal_ is a patchy excuse for the evil to pretend they fit under a label, like a bad box dye job that leaves streaks and patches of the natural color beneath it, like a mask.

It tries to hide the rotten toxicity underneath it, covering it like a molten smog across the dusty planes of a power plant: yet it begs to be seen by someone, orchestrated in a perfected dance to be _admired_.

The sight to beheld looks something like this: 

A - _normal_ \- house, with a white painted roof and topaz dusted side panes, accented gold painted windowsills and outside window gates. A regular ranch design by the outside look of it, matching the structure as the street’s neighbors. Nothing seemed _off_ about it. Nothing on the masks’ surface.

Until you approached the house, taking the first step upon the porch’s staircase, lifting your feet from the yard’s hand paved and placed pathway and scuffing the bottom of your shoe upon the cemented staircase, digits curling around the swirling curve of the obsidian guardrail, guiding you.

The heat brings gusts of dry wind, bringing secrets in its’ wake, breaking off crusty bits of that mask, eroded from years of unkemptness, of neglected care to the _whole_ mirage.

The woman, seemingly in her early 20’s, lays on the couch in the living room just off the inter door’s entryway - to the right. To the left is a small hallway that pockets the kitchen - motionless. Her eyes are raised skyward, as if she was studying the darkened patches of rainwater from the alabaster plaster riddling the undercarriage of the ceiling. As if trying to remember when the last time she called the plumber was, and had he fixed the kitchen sink the last time or the bathroom’s? Trying to remember the last time she went grocery shopping, what _even was the date_? Wondering all this as the TV blubbered inconsistencies - Netflix pausing every now and again worrying for _tauntingly_ asking: _are you still watching?_ \- wondering in such a _still_ state, as if she had forgotten where she was, disassociating from the four walls cradling her.

A blanket, singular, and black and red plaid patterned, covering her form, swallowing her from the neck downward.

It’s under the mask of the soft cotton blend, that hides the gruesome truth, unleashing the concoction of visual condition and buzzing wisps of smell taunting the hairs inside flaring nostrils, appalled, and reminded, once again by the cruelty of their fellow man.

“The delivery driver says he had been delivering a late package to her - says she never came by the post office to pick it up after the first time he had missed her being home - that he noticed the oddity. Said he was coming up the stairs and noticed the _smell_. Described it somewhere close to as if something moldy that had been left out for days was trying to cover roadkill.” The local detective spoke forlornly as he watched the specialists step around the living room, placing yellow triangular - and numbered - markers around pieces of evidence and the deceased woman’s body, the clicking of his tongue blending in with the snapshot sound of a camera’s flash going off.

“So, what: he came up to the door, knocked to availing a fruitless answer that was never going to come, and called the police?” A secondary observatory voice spoke up, the quizzical notes upon his trachea unmistakable, the man’s audible words giving way to the assumption of furrowed brows, concentration molding his countenance.

The detective nodded, his gaze unbreaking from the investigation unraveling before him. “Seems that’s how it went. My men and I showed up shortly before you guys did.” 

“And her neighbors didn’t question her not leaving the house the last couple of days? Surely it’s been at least a week because of the smell.” The second man spoke once more, though at this point it seemed he was more so speaking to himself and aloud, rather than addressing the detective.

A note, which seemed to irk the detective; for the first time since the secondary group arrived, the detective turned his gaze to the man to his right. Scrutinizingly looking at him, the detective studied him: the chestnut tufts of curlyish hair, haphazardly brushed as if the man left his house mere moments before he showed up to the crime scene, the same tufts that were hanging down a bit and almost obscuring the gaze from underneath circular edged square glass frames. The solid navy green t-shirt over what looked like black dress pants, a tag of some sort - presumably a badge - dangling from a belt loop. “And who exactly are you? You don’t exactly _look_ like FBI, not like the rest of them do.” 

The man in question didn’t answer, instead glancing to the detective with an indifferent apprehensive expression across his countenance, features furrowed and creased, lip curling downwards into a ghastly frown. Though still, he said nothing.

Being _sociable_ wasn’t one of his strong suits.

“This is Will Graham. He’s a specialist working with my unit.” A third male voice spoke up, Agent Jack Crawford moving to seize the position Will just had occupied beside the detective.

The detective, whom didn’t seem impressed with Will, scoffed, hands moving to settle inside the pockets of his inky colored dress pants. “Specialist is just a fancy word for ‘inadequate’. What made him miss the marks on the entry exam?”

“Stalling isn’t going to make this woman any less un _dead_ in your town, **_detective_**.” Will Graham finally spoke then, the words rough upon a near hissing palate from behind baring lips, his movements pausing as the tips of his shoes reached the perimeter of the fuzzy obsidian colored carpet. The carpet, still pristine minus the various pieces of foreign debris clinging to some of the strands, was placed on the wood floor before the lifeless woman on the couch. Footsteps halting, his head tilted a few degrees as he looked at the detective from his peripheral vision.

Despite Will’s words, he didn’t allow the detective to commentate, instead turning to the woman and the agent overlooking the body. 

“What have we got Bev?”

“Well, a few things of what we have and what we _don’t_ have, actually. Though, what we do know is that the cause of death seems to be a bullet wound to the heart. Killed her instantly, or short enough where she didn’t have a chance to fight.” The dark haired woman - presumably _Detective Beverly Katz_ \- who was hovering over the body, her gloved hands gently adjusting the chin of the deceased woman’s body, looked up, making eye contact with Will.

Who noticed, upon further inspection and getting closer to the woman - and upon Bev removing the blanket covering the woman - just what she had meant.

The body’s condition - with the blanket on - had seemed rather mundane; just a woman laying on her couch watching TV, lost in thought as she looked upon the ceiling. But _without_ the blanket: things took a turn for the **gruesome**.

The woman - still yet to be identified by anyone on scene - was gutted open, chest cavity cut straight down the middle, the stroke without hesitancy, aided by precision. The skin flaps from the incision, which judging by the edges of the open flaps, was a smooth slit. Such a detail indicated medical knowledge, whether by trade or hobby.

Will kept the thought upon the mid-burner of his mind, not close enough to have it cloud his current perception of taking in details, but not letting it slip off the hook, either. 

After a moment, he understood what Bev had meant: upon the torn open chest cavity was quite a few things — and lack thereof.

What was _missing_ first and foremost, from what Will could see: was the spinal cord. Behind the curved castle of the ribcage, under the layers and layers of curved bones: was next to nothing besides muscles and sinews: untouched. Which meant, in succession of a conclusion, that the lungs were also missing.

Will’s brows found themselves furrowing once more as he took it in, trying to wonder who or why someone would enter another person’s house to snatch their spinal cord and lungs.

Despite the placement of said items upon the human body, they didn’t exactly have an immediate _correlation_.

Besides,

“Seems the mutilation happened posthumously,” Will concluded, his words rather apprehensive, aloof at the edges, as if he were merely speaking aloud to an empty room.

“And that’s not all: whoever did this also wanted to give her a make-over; her scalp is entirely shaved of whatever hair she had prior to the attack. The growth of hairs can be placed a few days back, which judging by the odor the delivery man walked in on, that would place the timing to be about the same, give or take.” Bev looks up at Will as she speaks, moving to bring a gloved hand to the woman’s head, gently pushing it upwards to position it right side up to give Will a better look at it.

When Bev had done that, the woman’s lips fell opened for brevity of a second, causing Will to do a double take.

Raising a gloved hand of his own, and using his index finger and thumb, he gently pried the woman’s mouth open again to see inside. “Look like she’s missing some teeth as well. Not all of them, just some.”

“A sloppy job at hiding dental records?” Zeller spoke up from where he was crouched beside the couch nearest the living room’s wise expanse of a window, the large camera in his hand moving to be cradled by his right hand, gaze flickering between the woman, Beverly, and Will.

“Why try to hide dental records? If she lives here what would be the point of that?” Price spoke up next, giving a thoughtful hum as he placed another marker, this one, numbered _thirty-eight_ , by the woman’s head.

“There wouldn’t.” Will full-circled the conversation, shaking his head a bit. Using the back of his hand, he gently pushed his glasses back upon the apex of the bridge of his nose, still focusing on the woman’s mouth with his other hand.

“Nothing to do exclusively with the murder itself. It would be more of a selfish reason, something only _he’d_ have access to.”

“Like a **trophy**.” Beverly concluded, her and Will finally making eye contact, the latter giving a few slow nods of agreement.

“Think that’s what he did with the spinal cord and hair?” Jack Crawford spoke up as he approached the group once more, eyes shifting between his entire team.

Using his peripheral vision, Will glanced at the agent, the trajectory of his gaze also flickering to the local detective, who’s attention seemed to be elsewhere; his muffled voice being cushioned by an interaction with one of Jack’s officers.

Will retracted his hands from the woman’s mouth as he stood up, hands perched upon his upper thighs. “Could be, though that doesn’t explain the missing lungs.” Brows still creased at the heart of his brow bones, Will shook his head.

“If there was no signs of a struggle, maybe he took the bones as trophies and the lungs as — dinner.” Zeller added, a twitch of nervous apprehension shrouding his features, the curvature of his lips beginning to snag downwards with a sense of distaste.

“Do you think this is the copycat Shrike?” Jack was addressing Will once more, the other agents going back to finishing up their work; Beverly grabbing a few of the hair samples for further testing - and authentication for verification of the woman’s identity - and swabbing the inside of the woman’s mouth; Zeller snapping more pictures, Price now assisting him with being the prop to hold the woman’s mouth open.

Slowly, Will took a few steps back, getting to even foot level with Jack, though Will’s gaze never left the crime scene being laid out before them.

“No.” A shake of his head, a cynical gaze still taking in the surface level of the evidence before them. Jack’s gaze caught on to Will’s countenance, studying the specialist; whether such was because he was speaking, or Jack was _studying_ **him** , wasn’t clear at the moment. Though, it was presumptuous that such a distinction wasn’t important in _this_ here and now. 

“Despite the same incident with the lungs, and the timing, there are far many more differences than similarities. The lungs were taken out _after_ the woman had already been dead, not while she was alive. And this, this isn’t a display, a message to someone. He’s not admiring her, using her as art. He’s,” a pause, Will’s hand bringing itself upward, gloved fingers scratching at his chin a moment before his palm stretched across the area of his jaw, cupping his skull and propping it up, “He’s _mocking_ her. He didn’t move her from the position where she died, he took parts of her. 

The copycat honored the woman in the field by propping her up on the deer antlers, upgrading Hobbs’ work to art. This wasn’t meant to be seen,

**He’s placing her in solitary confinement.”**

Will’s words are finite, this means to an end; the room falls silent, not even so much of an exhaling of breath can be heard. It seemed all the movement in the room, the bustling of agents and detectives and police officers moving about the room, about the house — has all frozen into place.

“Solitary confinement?” Jack was the first to break that silence, his gaze breaking from Will’s countenance - whom hadn’t even noticed still Jack _had_ been looking at him, his concentration having been plastered to the body still - to the other agents and occupants of the room, nodding to each in turn, dismissing them from the crime scene for the time being.

To leave himself and Will alone in the room.

Just as Will Graham had always requested.

It wasn’t until everyone else had filed out of the room - thankfully without much question or fuss this time around - that Will answered.

“It’s like he’s trying to get her to confess to something she didn’t in her life, like - like she was _atoning_ for something.” It was then that Will raised his head back right once more, gaze moving to find Jack, a nonverbal agreement and connection transpiring.

The same agent who seemed puzzled, trying to connect the dots of Will’s words with the visual evidence placed and marked before them, as if like a novel the ending was right there, and all he had to do was read the three hundred something pages to get there, doing so while still feeling as if he were stuck upon the prologue.

“I’ll talk with the others, see if we can get an ID on her, and go from there. You need something,” Jack paused as he turned on the pivot of his feet, moving to exit the room. Though he didn’t, not just yet; instead raising a hand to rest it upon

Will’s shoulder, exuding a few pats to the area, a small smile, _encouragement_ , upon his visage, “just yell.”

And with that lifeline of support Jack felt obligated to give the man he dragged back to the field — he left Will Graham alone to do what he did best.

To put himself in the shoes of the killer.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!! Just wanted to say another thank you for reading this fic so far, and I hope you guys are enjoying it 🥺 !! I can’t stress enough how much the support I receive means to me, and that all kudos, comments, and reads mean the world to me <3 thank you all again

**_WARNING: This chapter contains content that might not be suitable for all readers, which is ( but is not limited to ): Mentions of guns and murder. Reader discretion is advised. I hope you enjoy : ) !!_ **

**_“This is my design._**

_I stand outside her home. I know this is her home because I know **her**. And she knows **me**._

_I’ve been here before._

_I walk up the walkway: paved and settled upon the front lawn, the little blades of grass over-growing upon the little uneven stones - that I know were custom made - tickling the edges of my shoes as I walk past._

_I walk up the cement based porch steps as I have done before, fingers expertly grasping the glistening obsidian guardrail; the hard stained steel still warm, though I know it isn’t because she had just gotten home._

_The guardrail must **remember** me, like welcoming an old friend._

_I stand outside the front door for a few moments, contemplating. I came here with an idea set in motion, a divine **need** to the task brandished upon hand._

_Doubt plagues the mind like a virus. I hesitate._

_A moment passes._

_Then two._

_I still stand upon the lovely watermelon decorated ‘Welcome’ mat, feet planted between the mat’s bristles._

_Finally, I knock._

_Several more seconds pass before she opens the door._

_She’s surprised to see me: but isn’t alarmed._

_She even claims it’s a ‘ **pleasant surprise**.’_

_It is._

_For her._

_She steps aside, ushering me to come in come in. Aloud she wonders if I prefer coffee or tea._

_Given the late hour and the jitters already trembling my bones, I lean towards coffee._

_I enter the living room as she does the kitchen. I look and admire the **familiar** decor, time and time seen again through various parties, celebrations and events. Noticing the the TV flickering, playing whatever show she had been binging prior to my entry; the azure based screen flashing color upon the dimly lit room, scattering little pockets of blue rays here and there_.

_A pristine community member on the outside._

_A **mask** to hide the shame._

_She comes back in with two mugs, handing me the one grasped in her right hand, a smile on her face._

_She takes her seat upon the couch again, taking a short sip of her own beverage._

_Given the strong odor in the air, I can safely assume she also made coffee._

_She leans over, setting the dark mug upon the coffee table beside her nest upon the couch, words forming sentences into questions coming from her._

_**‘What brings you here’** , she asks._

_Though despite the lie I tell at my lips, Lord forgive me, I know why I’m here._

_I stand, setting the mug down beside hers. I rustle inside my coat for a moment, as if looking for a **flyer**._

_But there is no flyer._

_No community driven event._

_It is a gun._

_The smooth metal nestled easily between my fingers, cradled comfortably against the side of my right palm._

_My thumb flicks the safety off as my arm raises, outstretches._

_The surprise on her face is like a beautifully made stained glass mosaic, all the pieces finally settling in together to create the whole of the image._

_She doesn’t have time to scream as I pull the trigger._

**_This is my design.”_ **

Gasping, Will comes back to in the living room, his arm raised and outstretched, an open palm pointed directly towards the deceased woman, as if he was waiting to give her a handshake.

His breath hitches as he takes a few ragged swallows, feeling the sweat beading upon the back of his neck, clinging to the tufts of hair that curl and swirl there, soaking up his rattled state.

Lowering his arm, Will moves to adjust his glasses, straightening them out - via holding the rims of the right eye - and then pushing them back upon the bridge of his nose.

Brows furrow and his forehead creases under some collective strands of hair as he studies the crime scene once more, his eyes looking from evidence to evidence.

The mug upon the coffee table - the _killer’s_ \- is no longer there, but the second one is.

Still shaken, Will tries to work out what he just saw and what is placed before him, finding the differences; both in the laying out of the crime scene, and the fact that _**he** did not kill her._

He sees through that veil, able to see the unruly, work out what they did.

_But what if he was just as bad as them?_

Swallowing hard once more, Will grabs at his glasses, taking them off entirely this time; his free hand raises, moving to rub at his eyes, thumbs swirling upon his lids in circular motions, before the entirety of his hand, palm first, moves down his face in a exasperated desperation.

It’s only when he settles the glasses back upon his visage, gently nestling the middle of the frames to the apex of his noses’ bridge, that he looks back at the crime scene.

Though, the woman is no longer there.

Instead in her place is Hobbs, harboring the same wounds as the deceased woman who’s home this belongs to, his visage frozen into the expression that he adorned when Will had shot him that day.

“ **See**?” He rasps out, looking directly at Will, his lifeless eyes boring into Will’s, forcing their gazes to stay connected as if Will was strapped and cuffed to a chair, head being held and stationed to look at Hobbs.

_To look at what **he’d** done._

“ _ **See**_?!” He says it again, this time louder, his voice gaining momentum as the word rips through his throat in a vile scream, causing Will to flinch, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to take in gusts of air, pushing it to his lungs, _willing_ Hobbs to go away.

Placing himself on one side of the veil, Hobbs on the other.

Will only opens his eyes as he hears a voice, an all too familiar one entering the room, though his steps that had brought him here remained silent, meticulous. Though Will knows the words aren’t directed at him, but to Jack, who had come in a few moments prior to check in on Will.

Yet, Jack hadn’t said anything.

“My apologies for being late,” Dr.Lecter begins to speak, and despite his words being directed to Jack, “I had an emergency appointment this morning,” despite that —

Will Graham can feel Hannibal Lecter’s gaze upon the back of his skull, watching.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!! Just wanted to say another thank you for reading this fic so far, and I hope you guys are enjoying it 🥺 !! I can’t stress enough how much the support I receive means to me, and that all kudos, comments, and reads mean the world to me <3 i apologize for the delay in the new chapter, things have been hectic in my life but I’m still here I promise ❤️❤️

“What have I missed?” Hannibal Lecter asks, his gaze still steady upon the back angle of Will’s skull, adamant to keep it there for as long as he can. Even if Will turned and looked at him in that moment, catching him red-handed, even if their setting changed, even if more - or even less - people were around, his gaze would _always_ find Will. His physique is still and wrung straight, inky-dark and ironed coat hanging over clasped palms placed before him, thumbs laid still against his abdomen as if he were nothing but a statue. All put together, shining pristinely before the agents like glitter and gold.

Blending in, yet standing apart from the rest. Aesthetically pleasing yet aloofly plain. The juxtaposition of the icy warmth that was Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal’s gaze is still targeted upon Will, even when Will himself moves, turning around upon the pivot of his shoed feet, clearing his throat with a rough cough as a hand fidgets at his glasses. His eyes blink for a moment before they flicker, connecting their gazes; such a thing he only does for a brief moment, breaking away from Hannibal’s eyes to study the crime scene once again almost immediately in the next second.

Eye contact.

Something he’s always _hated_.

Well, hate is a strong word; dislike might adhere better, though regardless the action makes him **_uncomfortable_**.

“A woman, found dead on her couch. No force of entry, bullet wound to the chest seems to be the cause of death. Police were called when a delivery man showed up at the door and noticed a foul smell coming from her residence. As he missed her the first time he tried to bring the package, he called out of worry.” Jack was the one to answer Hannibal’s question, his jaw rather taut as he too looked over the crime scene once more.

Though, his curiosity resided more with what Will saw more than anything. Hannibal had shown up with impeccable timing as to deny Jack the chance to ask Will what he had seen.

What he had seen when Will put himself in the shoes of the killer; the whole ordeal that Jack kept coming back time and time again and again for.

Will swallowed, turning back to the pair. “There were a few obvious oddities in the case: missing teeth, her lungs, her spinal cord, and even her hair were all also missing, entirely descalped by the looks of it, posthumously,” the empath shook his head a moment, hand raising as it covered his mouth, fingers rubbing at the area before his digits dragged downwards towards his chin, lingering upon its’ edge like a few pebbles teetering off a cliff.

“We have to bring everything back to the lab for testing, and hopefully get an ID on her.” Jack added after a few beats of silence; his head nodding in the direction of Will; though of course, the nod wasn’t directed _at_ Will, but the space the woman had occupied behind him.

Yet, there was an itch in the back of Will’s mind that couldn’t deny the thought that it felt like Jack _was_ nodding directly at Will, as if _accusing_ him to be a part of it.

_As if he was the one who had done it._

The hand at Will’s chin moved, shifting to the back of his neck as he rubbed that area as well, the swirls of the tips of his fingerprints wiping away the sweat, brows cinching together in a tight furrow, creasing the smooth canvas of his visage; it displayed a sense of inner turmoil, a nonverbal struggling tug of war.

Hannibal studied all of this, silently taking in the man before him. Not Jack, who had spoken again - mentioning something about questioning the neighbors and anyone who had been in contact with the woman over the last several weeks, try to get a hit on a lead - but at Will, noticing the little twitches and cracks of movements.

The psychiatrist wondered what was going on inside the other’s head, what he was thinking, **feeling**.

It was something, Dr.Lecter was sure, that Will would bring up in their next weekly meeting.

Which was the following evening, if Hannibal wasn’t mistaken.

And he often wasn’t.

“I’ll call the two of you if we get any further information,” Jack spoke once again, breaking through the silence with a sword slice of his words, eyeing the two men before him now, scrutiny and a cynical glint narrowing upon his oculars.

“Right. And if we break through anything we’ll let you know as well,” Hannibal spoke up for himself and Will, giving a nod to Jack.

Jack, seeming satisfied with such an answer, gave a few final inclinations of his head in a quick succession, a smooth motion mimicking to that of the resting notions of a wobbling object. Though, Agent Crawford took his leave after that, leaving Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter entirely alone.

Once the agent was gone, Hannibal finally moved, taking a few steps towards the crime scene before him, towards _Will_.

A hand found its way from out under the jacket laid over his wrists and hands, the free hand moving to perch itself upon Will’s shoulder for a moment. Will could feel himself freezing underneath the touch, muscles tensing and jaw tightening tenfold, the hands at his sides twitching, begging for his muscles and bones to fold, to from fists at his sides.

But even that, even that, felt like too much; that if he moved an inch— the moment would be gone.

There was a certain juxtaposition in it all; this mixture of a wave of comfort at Hannibal’s touch and presence, like a guardian of sorts, yet it laid hand in hand with the discomfort that shivered down the rungs of Will’s spine, line spindly digits were playing music upon his spinal cord.

Instead, he shivered, shying away from the touch a bit.

“How’re you feeling?” Hannibal asks, noticing the other’s little movements of inching away, the growing space - even if minuscule - between them. His hand retreated itself, moving back underneath the confines of the jacket’s makeshift curtain. His words were slow and even, weighted by the warmth of endearment.

Will shied further away then, his footsteps bringing him closer to the couch - closer for where he had been when he put himself in _his_ shoes - a weighted feeling gardening in his chest, like the last strings of rope securing an anvil from falling, waiting for the precise finite end when it would snap to crush him.

“Tired,” was all Will said at first, the dismayed creases still indenting in his face, unable to smooth out the crinkles of distraught from him. “Just, overwhelmed. I didn’t think I’d be back in this so soon.” A sigh followed his words this time, his hand once more raising to rub at his face, ducking beneath his glasses to get at his eyes as well.

“If you’d like,” Hannibal began to reply, “I can speak to Jack and have him take you off the case. Rest is important, Will.” There it was again — that notion of endearment.

_It surely was just some doctor-patient thing, right?_

“No.” Will’s words were unforeseeably harsh, rigid in its’ confidence.

Hannibal seemed rather surprised by the other’s answer, though there was a hint of pride in the gentle upcurl twitching at a singular edge of his lips. “Very well. Though do make sure to keep an eye on yourself, such as I’ll be doing, to check in on your mental health.”

“I’m fine.” Will replied, looking up at Hannibal, his glasses sitting between the index finger and thumb of his right hand. “Really, Dr.Lecter, I’ll be fine.” There was a smile, albeit forced, upon Will’s tiers, as if that alone would fool and reassure Hannibal.

It didn’t.

But yet still, Hannibal said nothing.

Well, part of it due to what Will had said, the other part,

“That’s funny, because the sweat on your skin and your trembling hands quite say a different story Will Graham.” A female voice spoke up in the space of the room, splintering the solitary time Hannibal had had with Will.

The woman seemed rather coy, an amiable grin to her painted lips, as if she knew something everyone else didn’t at all times. Her deep auburn hair was coiled into neat and tight curls, her bangs sitting across one side of her visage. Though a friendly outward demeanor, the two other occupants in the room quite knew her true nature.

“Miss Lounds, I do believe you’re on the wrong side of the police tape.” Hannibal chimed in, a feigned smile tightly tugging at his lips, a bit of narrowness upon his gaze.

Freddie Lounds looked at Hannibal, giving a bit of a laugh. “You seem surprised Dr.Lecter, as if we already haven’t been through this song and dance. My job is just as important as anyone else’s here.” Even her words reeked of confidence, a wave of arrogance only a journalist could possess.

Will scoffed at her words, giving a few to and fro shakes of his head as he re-applied his glasses. “What? Your job of lying and being deceitful to law enforcement so you can stick your nose into business that isn’t yours? Right.” Will gave another incredulous laugh, eyebrows raising as he finally brought his gaze to hers, the cold trajectory of his gaze leaving no mercy.

“ _Reporting_ is an important job, Will Graham. Last time I checked I had the right to write about whatever I please. Besides, the people deserve to know _all_ the details. People are curious.”

“There’s a difference between reporting and **_exploitation_**.” Will retorted as his lips pulled back into a partial sneer upon the final word, the preciously raises brows now furrowing at the heart of his brow bone, incredulousness highlighting his countenance.

“You can’t exploit something that people already know about.” She replied, seemingly proud of herself for being able to keep up this back and forth bickering. And it was obvious from her even gaze, unbreaking from Will’s — she wasn’t going to back down any time soon.

“Regardless, the ways you retrieve your information is considered to be rather — **unorthodox**.” Hannibal decides to interject, earning both gazes of the other two in the room, his demeanor betraying nothing of an effect of such.

Freddie let out a bit of a chiming laugh, hands moving to clasp together in front of her, almost mirroring Hannibal’s posture, as if by doing so, she could somehow raise herself to Hannibal’s level. “Aren’t you a _fan_ of unorthodox ways, Dr.Lecter?” Her words were a bit of a hissing challenge, wondering if he’d take the poisonous bait.

“Depends in the situation, Miss Lounds. There’s a difference between something considered unusual than something considered to be harmful. I’m not entirely sure you’re aware of such a difference.” 

Freddie was a bit taken aback by Hannibal’s final comment then, a bit of a scoff at her lips. “I’m not sure you’re aware of it either. Seems like just yesterday the Hobbs incident happened. And yet, here you both are, rubbing your noses into business again. Surely that has to be a chip on your psyche.”

“Whether it is or isn’t, isn’t any of your business. Just like how _this_ isn’t, either.” Will replied, his gaze moving back to Freddie, that same cold steely consistency to them.

_If looks could kill._

“Please do escort yourself out, or I can have the police do such a thing for me, Miss Lounds.” Hannibal also proceeded to chime in one more, though his visage remained impassive, staying rather professional.

Freddie exchanged a few final glances between the two men before her, a laugh bubbling from her throat.

“Whatever you two say. Though I have a feeling you two are a lot more involved in this than simply just the investigation. So don’t think for a second that I don’t know something is up with the two of you.

Because I know. And I _will_ find out.”


	6. Chapter 5

**WARNING : This chapter contains content that may not be suitable for all readers, subjects that include depictions of violence and mentions of guns. Reader discretion is advised. Enjoy !!!**

_  
The dirt is soft underfoot, easily malleable by shoe imprints, dampened from the rain that had scattered across the hours of the afternoon._

_Yet now the moon stands high in the sky at the apex of its journey, the moonlight its’ glorious ghastly halo, glowing upon half of the world beneath its reign._

_The glow encompasses fields and pastures, resident areas filled with slumbering citizens, insomniacs restlessly tossing and turning in their linen covered beds_ _, teenagers studying late or on their phones. But the moonlight also illuminates those unseemly acts, quite a broad term for the range of such things._

_But she hides it under that halo, a secretive hush in the air as the birds are silenced, and townspeople sleep or tend to their own business. While the sun exposes for all to see, the moon brandishes a spotlight upon a stage,_ **encouraging**.

_Even now, in a barren clearing in a field, the moon watches the play unraveling before her, the clear sky an indicator of her greedy giddiness to see it all._

_He stands in the middle of the clearing opposing a young woman sitting on a reclining couch, her form still. Her dark chestnut hair sits straight upon her shoulders, gently cascading past her collarbone, her edges curling and mingling with one another. There’s a bandana, obsidian fabric decorated with glorious blue roses, wrapped around her delicate throat, hiding her from the night’s main stage._

_Still,_

**_She knows him._**

_Her dark gaze just studies the man with a familiar softened overturn of her brows, speaking something incoherent against the wind, though judging by the twitching of the man’s fingers, his hesitant step forward, then two — her words were that of an invitation._

_Yet, his physique doesn’t make it all the journey’s way over there, instead stopping a few feet still from the lone couch._

_He takes a shaky breath, the shift in his movements allowing for the moonlight to accentuate the sheen of sweet condensing upon his visage, mingling with an oily palate, making a concoction of uncertainty._

_His hands shake as he reaches into his jacket pocket, fingers taking a few purposeful moments to fumble. He’s mumbling now, saying something to her._

**_Apologizing._ **

_Though there is nothing apologetic about the metal now clasped in his grasp, the curving space between the trigger and the handle a nest for his index finger, which sits there now, idly waiting for a synapse of a command._

_The girl doesn’t move, her limbs frozen, statuette as she just stares at the man before her. She is not afraid, her demeanor remaining impassive, like a fragile China plate._

_The man, the ever delicate teacup, shatters with his ragged breaths, coming out now in quick successions, the splinters of him scattering against the water trapped earth as he pulls the trigger, crimson dotting the clearing near black in the night._

**_This is my design._**

Will Graham awakes with a choking gasp, the sound an emergency shriek rattling his throat. Immediately he sits up, hands unconsciously finding purchase upon his own throat, landing on the heaving tidal wave of his expanding and collapsing chest.

They trail across his own torso for a moment, as if checking to see if he had sustained any damage from the nightmare.

Of course, his fingers come in contact with no wounds or markings of the sort, but brush across the fine sheen of sweat drenching his muscles and limbs, acting as a glue to his plain gray tee, forcing the fabric to meld to his skin in areas of darkened splotches.

His hands eventually land to the destination of his countenance, the palms of his hands moving down the expanse of his face as he tries to collect himself. His chest heaves with those same ragged breaths, his heart pumping erratically in the ribbed castle of his chest, threatening to break neighboring ribs. 

Though they don’t, of course.

A sigh bubbles from the empath as his spine bends, his upper torso bending forward as he replaces his head upon his hands. He uses the connection as an anchor to try and still his trembling form, trying to cease it like a crashing tidal wave.

After a moment he gets up, feet padding along the wooden floor as he makes his way to the dresser, shedding the damp shirt. The moonlight peaking through the blinds illuminates the glistening sheen that slickly dots Graham’s skin.

He tosses the shirt aside into a hamper, switching it for a plain beige towel sitting upon the top. Towel in hand, he rummages through the top drawer of the dresser for a moment, grabbing an identical plain shirt from his previous one. Placing the towel at the end of the bed, he pulls the shirt over his head, limbs still giving small synapses of tremors as he adjusts the shirt to hang loosely over his torso.

Grabbing the towel once more, Will shakes it out over the top of the fitted sheet, adjusting it to fit to where he sleeps.

Climbing back into his bed - now laying on the towel -, he pulls the covers up all the way, shrouding himself with the cotton comforter, giving him a place of solace.

Graham shifts, turning onto his other side, now facing the blinded windows, hoping that a change of position would help vanquish the nightmare gripping his slumbering and waking form, and hoping it wouldn’t continue for the last few hours he had to sleep.

Eyebrows twitching, a secondary sigh bubbles from Will as his eyes open, adjusting to the dimly lit room.

His form raises from the bed a bit suddenly, slow and lethargic as if he was underwater, his head tilting a few degrees in apprehension. Though it’s obvious as his features shift, brows scrunching at the heart of his brow bone, lips trembling as they unlock and become agape — that he’s paralyzed from what he sees. 

Just outside his window, even visible past the veil of the blinds, is a stag with antlers that extend the entire width of the windows, it’s form black as the night surrounding it, watching Will.


End file.
